The Big Lebowski Page #21

MAUDE:

And please don't call her my mother.

DUDE:

Now I got--

MAUDE:

She is most definitely the perpetrator

and not the victim.

DUDE:

I'm telling you, I got definitive

evidence--

MAUDE:

From who?

DUDE:

The main guy, Dieter--

MAUDE:

Dieter Hauff?

DUDE:

Well--yeah, I guess--

MAUDE:

Her "co-star" in the beaver picture?

DUDE:

Beaver? You mean vagina?--I mean,

you know him?

MAUDE:

Dieter has been on the fringes of--

well, of everything in L.A., for

about twenty years. Look at my LP's.

Under 'Autobahn.'

The Dude fingers through the albums filling one bookshelf.

MAUDE:

That was his group--they released

one album in the mid-seventies.

The Dude stops between two albums.

DUDE:

Roy Orbison. . . Pink Floyd.

MAUDE:

Huh? Autobahn. A-u-t-o. Their

music is a sort of--ugh--techno-pop.

The Dude pulls out an album with a worn sleeve. On it is

the group's name, Autobahn, the album name, Nagelbett, and a

picture

OF THREE YOUNG GERMANS, THEIR FOREHEADS LOOMING BELOW

SLICKED-

back hair, gazing upward in thin-lipped epiphany. They are

wearing severe but modishly retro suits. Each has his name

under his picture--Dieter, Kieffer; and Franz. A bed of

nails is the only set dressing on the cyc.

DUDE:

Jeez. I miss vinyl.

MAUDE:

Is he pretending to be the abductor?

DUDE:

Well...yeah--

MAUDE:

Look, Jeffrey, you don't really

kidnap someone that you're acquainted

with. You can't get away with it if

the hostage knows who you are.

DUDE:

Well yeah...I know that.

MAUDE:

So Dieter has the money?

DUDE:

Well, no, not exactly. It's a

complicated case, Maude. Lotta ins.

Lotta outs. And a lotta strands to

keep in my head, man. Lotta strands

in old Duder's--

MAUDE:

Do you still have that doctor's

number?

DUDE:

Huh? No, really, I don't even have

the bruise any more, I--

She is scribbling.

MAUDE:

Please Jeffrey. I don't want to be

responsible for any delayed after-

effects.

DUDE:

Delayed after-eff--

MAUDE:

I want you to see him immediately.

She is picking up a telephone.

MAUDE:

I'll see if he's available. He's a

good man, and thorough.

CLOSE SHOT THE DUDE

His eyes are closed, a headset on, his shirt off. Leaking

tinnily through the headset we hear the opening bars of

"Comin' Up Around the Bend."

Behind him, cropped so that we see only a little of his torso,

a white-smocked figure taps at the Dude's back. After a

moment the figure circles to one side, out of frame. His

hand reaches in to pull one arm of the headset away from the

Dude's ear, and as he does so the music issues more strongly.

VOICE:

Could you slide your shorts down

please, Mr. Lebowski?

The Dude's eyes open.

DUDE:

Huh? No, she, she hit me right here.

VOICE:

I understand sir. Could you slide

your shorts down please?

DUDE'S CAR

The Dude is driving home. A Creedence tape plays. The Dude

is sucking down a joint. He glances at the rear-view mirror--

and, noticing something, looks again.

HIS POV:

A Volkswagon bug is following, a lone fat man driving.

THE DUDE:

His eyes still on the mirror, he absently takes the joint

between thumb and forefinger of his right hand and flicks it

out the driver's window--except that the window is not open.

The butt bounces off the glass and around the car, showering

sparks.

DUDE'S CROTCH

The glowing butt rolls down the car seat between his legs.

The Dude screams.

THE STREET:

The car careens wildly as the surrounding traffic veers off

to, make way, horns blaring. The car finally spins and comes

to rest with its passenger side wrapped into a telephone

poll.

INSIDE THE CAR:

The Dude frantically grabs at his door, which won't open,

and then slides over to push at the passenger door, which

also won't open.

DUDE:

F*** Me.

But he is sitting on the passenger side now, away from

the lit butt. He looks around for it.

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